


Hand in Glove

by Miss M (missm)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Boxing, Dudley redeemed, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-17
Updated: 2011-05-17
Packaged: 2017-10-19 12:24:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/200820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/pseuds/Miss%20M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thinking back later, Dudley supposed it had taken a long time for him to realise just why he enjoyed boxing so much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hand in Glove

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2010 Dudley Redeemed fest on LJ. My thanks to The Smiths for the title, and to Kelly for the excellent beta.

Sweat running down his back. Adrenaline pumping through his veins. The sounds of heavy breathing and the musky smell of man; a body, hard and relentless, engaged in deadly combat with his.

Thinking back later, Dudley supposed it had taken a long time for him to realise just why he enjoyed boxing so much.

 

~ * ~

 

"I have a new sparring partner for you," Newton said, tossing a towel Dudley's way.

Dudley seized the towel and wiped his brow. The punching bag was still swinging behind him, but he ignored it, stretching his arms and flexing the sore muscles. "Yeah? Who?"

"A fellow called Goyle." Newton grinned. "Showed up yesterday and wanted to sign up for the club. He seems to be perfect for you."

This was good news, Dudley thought. Most of the blokes at the club were sort of tiny (at least compared to him), and he always felt as if he had to restrain himself during bouts. It almost made him miss his schooldays, when he could beat up people in good conscience, although he'd really grown out of that sort of thing a long time ago.

"Sounds brilliant," he said, taking a sip of his water bottle. "Is he coming this Wednesday?"

"Yup," said Newton. "So are you, I hope? Did you get your schedule sorted out?"

Dudley thought for a moment. He'd tried to arrange his shifts at the pub so that they wouldn't collide with boxing practice. Wednesday should be all right, unless his mother came up with something unexpected -- occasionally she'd insist on surprise tea parties with some neighbour's single daughter, or something similar. Dudley couldn't always avoid it, but the prospect of having a decent partner definitely seemed worthy risking a fight over.

"Sure," Dudley said, nodding to the coach. "I'm coming."

 

~ * ~

 

He yawned on the tube ride back home to his flat, and he rubbed his eyes wearily while walking up the stairs. It was the good kind of tiredness, the one that came from having pushed your body to its limits and beyond. Dudley felt he'd sleep well tonight, even without his customary wank.

Kicking off his shoes, he made for the fridge and a well-deserved beer. There were two messages on the answering machine; both of them were from his mother and contained variations upon the theme of _Duddikins, when are you coming home for dinner next time? Mummy misses you. Are you lonely? It is so important you go out to meet nice people, you know._

Dudley rolled his eyes and sank down on the sofa. Being an only child had seemed fine and dandy back when he was a kid, but now? All of his parents' expectations relied upon him and him alone. He was the only one who was supposed to come home for Sunday dinners, to follow in his dad's footsteps, to produce grandchildren...

Actually, Dudley more and more often caught himself wishing that his parents had been nicer to Harry back then. Things could have been so different: Harry could have come visiting with that red-haired girlfriend of his and talked about his weird job at length, while Dudley could have felt less guilty for spending his time working at a pub (instead of getting a 'proper job', as his parents would say), and boxing at the local club, and hanging out with his pals -- those who were still single, anyway.

But Harry didn't talk to Dudley's parents, and they didn't talk to him, and both parties seemed content this way, as far as Dudley knew. He himself had got into the habit of sending Harry a card every now and then: for Christmas, and for his birthday, and even from the vacation he'd taken with Piers on Ibiza. And Harry returned the favour -- with normal post, thank god; Dudley didn't know what he would do if some owl suddenly showed up to harass his window. The thought made him shudder.

He put his feet on the table and switched on the telly. They were showing some American sitcom tonight, nothing too complicated. Perfect.

 

~ * ~

 

When Dudley showed up at the club on Wednesday, it was with a pervasive feeling of anticipation. This fellow Goyle could hardly be an expert -- if he was, he'd never register at Dudley's club, which was first and foremost for amateurs. Perhaps he wasn't even a seasoned boxer. Even so, Dudley was looking forward to meeting him. The punching bag was getting old.

Newton grinned upon seeing him. He waved Dudley over to a dark corner where he was searching through a large cardboard box of old gloves that belonged to the club. Dudley turned up his nose a little at the sweaty smell. He'd always had his own gloves; his dad had always been more than happy to buy him the finest equipment there was.

"Dudley," Newton said, nodding toward a shadow that lurked beyond the box. "Meet Gregory Goyle."

The shadow moved and rose to its feet. It took the shape of a man. A very large man.

When Goyle stepped out from behind the box, Dudley realised he was perhaps even broader than he was.

"Nice to meet you," he said, reaching out his hand and feeling a strange thrill run down his spine.

Goyle pressed his hand with a grunt. It felt like squeezing a giant ham.

"I was just trying to see if we had any gloves that Greg could use," said Newton, starting to rummage through the box once more, "but I don't know if there are any large enough..."

Dudley opened his mouth. "You can borrow a pair of mine," he heard himself say.

They both looked at him, Newton surprised, Goyle expressionless. "Really?" said Newton, standing up and brushing his hands on his trousers. "That's kind of you."

Dudley just nodded. Part of him was still dumbfounded at what he'd just said: lending his gloves to a perfect stranger who couldn't even afford his own -- _really?_ But another, and far more powerful, part of him was already gleefully looking at Goyle's broad shoulders, his arms, his torso, all of which suggested a body with which you didn't have to restrain yourself at all.

Yes, Dudley very much wanted to box this man.

They changed in silence, Dudley glancing over at the stranger now and then, unable to contain his curiosity. Goyle wasn't exactly toned -- there was muscle there, sure, and lots of it, but also fat. He looked like the type who was strong from nature's side, but who'd have a great deal of work to do when it came to the aerobic side of things. Dudley felt pretty sure he could beat him.

They warmed up, and then Newton suggested they should spar a little, 'just to see how it goes'.

They circled each other warily, hands in guard position. Dudley noticed that Goyle didn't seem like a freshman -- he held his hands just so, his eyes following Dudley's every move. It was he who made the first attempt, a quick blow that Dudley nonetheless dodged easily.

"Good, boys!" Newton called. "Let's see a little more intensity, shall we?"

Twelve rounds later, Dudley found himself panting in one of the corners, wiping his brow. Goyle, while lacking somewhat in technique, had proved a formidable combatant; Dudley's jaw still smarted from one of his uppercuts. Now Goyle was slumped in his own corner, staring dully ahead while sipping at his water bottle. He'd taken off Dudley's spare gloves and his large hands were gleaming with sweat. So were his broad chest and shoulders, not to mention his face.

Dudley tore his gaze away as Newton patted his shoulder. "Well done, lads," he said approvingly with a nod to Goyle. "I thought you hadn't done much boxing before, Greg?"

"I've done a lot of boxing," said Goyle. Dudley thought there was a rasp to his toneless voice, as if he was exhausted but determined not to show it. "Just not around these parts."

"Well, you did great," Newton told him. "We'll just work some on your defence, and perhaps your stance, too." He turned to Dudley. "Are you sticking around, or would you rather have a go at the punching bag?"

Dudley took a large gulp of water. He nodded, looking at Goyle's sweaty face. "I'll stick around, if you like."

Newton gave them some exercises, then went to check on some of the others who were training. After some minutes of practising footwork and parrying, Dudley decided a little small talk couldn't hurt.

"You're not from around here, then?" he asked casually, aiming for Goyle's cheek.

Goyle blocked, then shook his head. His face was expressionless. "Nah."

Obviously this fellow wasn't very fond of talking. Still, Dudley was genuinely curious about him. "But you've been boxing for a long time?"

"Yeah." Goyle hesitated for a moment, then added, "Not as long as you, though."

"Me?" Dudley asked.

"Yeah. Your coach talks about you a lot. Says you have a great talent."

Goyle stopped abruptly, deciding to punch instead. Dudley made a swift duck. "Well, that's nice to hear," he said awkwardly. People rarely praised him, except for his parents (though Dudley more and more often got the feeling they didn't really know what they were talking about).

Back in the changing room, after practice, Dudley asked Goyle if he'd like to come with him to the pub and have a beer. The question just sort of asked itself, it felt so natural, and Goyle looked for a moment as if he was about to accept. But then he shook his head, smiling a gruff smile that nonetheless changed his features somewhat, making them almost pleasant. "No, thanks. Got stuff to do. But maybe next Wednesday, though."

Dudley was so busy reflecting upon this (had he been too forward? Did Goyle take him for a clingy git?) that it took him some time to realise that Goyle hadn't joined him and the others in the showers. When he came out, the man was nowhere to be seen. This struck Dudley as somewhat odd, but he shrugged it off. Perhaps Goyle lived close by and preferred to shower at home instead. At any rate, they'd see each other next Wednesday -- Goyle had promised as much.

Dudley wasn't sure why the prospect should make him so happy. But it did.

 

~ * ~

 

He went to his parents' house on Sunday for the usual dinner. His mother fussed; his father boasted; Dudley ate his three servings of Shepherd's pie and rounded it off with pudding; everything was the way it used to be.

Except it wasn't. Strangely enough, that good tiredness hadn't come last Wednesday; instead, he'd felt restless, excited. What's more, the feeling lingered: he had to concentrate not to fidget on his chair and to pay attention to what his parents were saying.

"So, Duddikins," his mum crooned, smiling at him expectantly. "Have you met any nice girls lately?"

Dudley sighed inwardly. This again. More than ever he wished Harry could have been here, if only to divert attention from Dudley himself. "Not really, Mum."

"I tell you, Dudders, there's no future at that pub," his father boomed. "What decent girl will be seen alive in there? And while boxing is all very well, you won't meet any there, either. Now, one of my co-workers has a daughter who's about your age..."

It was no use, Dudley thought. How could he explain to them that girls, to him, were simply uninteresting? That he didn't care about them more than he cared about fancy food, or designer clothing, or Shakespeare? That the girls whom he ran into at work and elsewhere were just people, random people, nothing more?

He couldn't say it. They'd think he was abnormal. Like, a poof or something.

Everything would have been so much easier if Harry were there.

 

~ * ~

 

Goyle did show up Wednesday. Dudley hadn't realised just how much he'd hoped this would be the case, until he saw that large, bulking frame in the changing room, pulling on a pair of shorts. Goyle nodded in greeting, before picking up a pair of strange gloves. Dudley frowned.

"You do have your own gloves, then?" he asked.

Goyle scratched his neck, looking oddly ill at ease. "Yeah, well. Yeah. Got them from my cousin. Had to tweak them somewhat, only." He shrugged. "Didn't know this club had only small sizes, did I?"

"You could borrow mine again," said Dudley's mouth. "I'd be happy to lend them to you."

Goyle looked at the fine pair of gloves lying on top of Dudley's bag, then at his own pair, which were considerably older and scratchier. Then back again. "Well, I suppose, if it doesn't bother you?" That look, as if he wasn't used to people doing him favours. "I'd buy my own, but my family's fallen on hard times lately, and..."

"Don't think about it," Dudley insisted, fishing out the gloves and handing them over. "It's not a problem at all."

They sparred again, several rounds. Afterwards, Goyle boxed another (and substantially smaller) boy, while Dudley took a break, watching. To him, Goyle seemed more relaxed from this angle; his movements seemed almost casual, as if he was letting down his guard. Or perhaps he was just saving his energy for Dudley, his true match? Dudley rather liked that thought.

It struck him that Goyle must be about his own age, although he sometimes looked older, as if he'd been through sad things and still hadn't got over them. Coming to think about it, there was an air of mystery about him -- a strange notion, really, but there it was.

A cold shiver suddenly ran down his spine: perhaps it was even possible that Goyle was a...

No, that idea was laughable. Dudley almost scoffed at himself. Those people didn't become boxers.

That night, before going to bed, he took out from his bag the pair of gloves he'd lent Goyle. Without thinking too much about what he was doing, he sniffed them. The stale air of sweat shouldn't have aroused him, but it did.

 

~ * ~

 

Dudley didn't dare ask Goyle to have a beer again, not until the fifth Wednesday after they'd met. To his surprised delight, Goyle accepted, and they wandered off to the nearest pub, the owner of which Dudley knew from Smeltings.

"This round's on me," Dudley insisted as Goyle started digging in his pockets, muttering something half-intelligible about weird money. "What would you like?"

Goyle eyed the menu with scepticism. "Whatever you're having," he finally said.

Armed with two pints of ale, they found a table by the window. The pub was only half-full, which suited Dudley rather well: normally he wouldn't mind some noise, but it seemed important not to risk missing anything Goyle was saying.

Not that he was saying much, mind. It was mostly Dudley talking for the first twenty minutes, about the club and boxing in general and his job and his parents and Smeltings and anything else he could think of. Goyle nodded now and then, occasionally grunting in approval or disgust, but he didn't seem bored -- at least, Dudley hoped so. It was rather strange, this business of trying to make new friends; his pals were people he'd known practically all his life, after all, and he never had to worry about making a good impression on them. In fact, the idea had never occurred to him. But this... Well, this was different, and for some reason it seemed urgent that Goyle would have a good time here, tonight, with Dudley.

"But enough about me," he finally said, trying to nod in a cheerfully encouraging manner. "What about you? Do you work around here?"

Goyle shifted uneasily. "Well, yes and no. In a manner of speaking." He glanced around, clearly uncomfortable. "It's a bit hard to explain."

Dudley might not be an expert on manners, but he knew it was considered rude to pry into other people's private lives, so he swallowed his burning curiosity, at least for the time being. "You're awfully secretive," he said, trying to make it sound like a joke. "You're not in the MI5, are you?"

Goyle stared at him blankly. "The what?"

"Uh, never mind," said Dudley, who was by now extremely puzzled. He raised his drink. "To Newton, right? The best coach a man can have."

Goyle's mouth curved then, into that gruff smile which made his face strangely appealing. "To Newton."

They didn't talk much after that, only finished their ale in what Dudley hoped was companionable silence. Afterwards, they made their way out to the street, where Dudley hailed a taxi. He turned around to ask if Goyle would like to share it, but strangely enough, the man was gone -- just like that, as if he'd vanished into thin air. A bit perplexed, Dudley got into the car. He spent the ride home trying to find out if he'd done something wrong.

 

~ * ~

 

"Listen, boys," Newton said one Wednesday, after Dudley and Goyle had just finished a bout. "You've both made such great progress lately, I'd like to see you practice more. I was thinking that maybe you'd like to use the facilities to practice on your own -- on Friday night, if you like, when there isn't anyone else about, and you'll get the whole place for yourselves. I'll get you a spare key. No need to thank me," he added genially as Dudley opened his mouth, "You'll have to repay for any lost keys with your blood." He winked. "Now, what do you say?"

The prospect of practicing alone, with Goyle, seemed almost indecently intriguing to Dudley; still, he didn't dare voice his approval until Goyle gave a curt nod of consent. "That sounds brilliant," he said, hardly daring to look at Goyle.

"Splendid," said Newton. "Splendid. Now, don't disappoint me, all right?"

Friday came. Dudley left directly for the club after his shift ended, and at nine o'clock, he was ready, warming up by himself and trying not to look at his watch every few seconds. It was only practice, after all, only sparring. Maybe Goyle wouldn't even show up, and -- well, Dudley was more nervous about this than anything else. He kept hoping Goyle would come, although the thought made him strangely nervous, too. When the door to the changing rooms opened and Goyle appeared, Dudley felt a weird explosion of something that felt like butterflies in his stomach. He swallowed.

It was ridiculous. All right, he was here alone with a man he barely knew, but what could Goyle possibly do to him? He was strong, but so was Dudley, and Dudley was still the better boxer. And besides, why would even Goyle want to hurt him? There was nothing to be afraid of, so why so nervous?

They practiced punches and blocking for a while, then Dudley suggested they do a match, just for the sake of training, even if there was no referee around. Goyle accepted, with a particular gleam in his eye. He wore Dudley's spare gloves; that had become a habit by now.

The first five rounds were pretty even, but then Dudley found himself getting unfocussed. It was so weird, being here alone with Goyle, the hall dark and empty around them, the only sounds their own breathing and the clash of leather against skin...

A fist in his face, and he toppled over.

The next thing he knew, he was lying on his back, Goyle's face slowly coming into view above him. "You all right?"

"Yeah," Dudley said dizzily. He wanted to move, but found that he couldn't; it was paralysing, having Goyle so close like that. "Yeah. A nice hit, there."

Goyle frowned. "You sound weird."

And Dudley did feel rather weird. Which was why he did something weirder still: he reached up, grabbed Goyle by his ears (he'd taken his helmet off) and pulled him close. Perhaps it was just to assure him that he was, indeed, all right, and that Goyle was a fine and promising boxer, and that he, Dudley, was happy to have finally met his match, or something sentimental like that -- but whatever the intention was, the result was a sloppy and messy kiss, a clashing of mouth and teeth and noses, and a surprised grunt from Goyle.

It took Dudley a few seconds to realise just what he was doing, and even then the horror of it -- not only that he was kissing a man, which was actually a rather poofy thing to do, but that Goyle, who was most certainly not a poof, would probably hate him for it -- seemed strangely detached, and it was only with a great amount of determination that he managed to let go, gasping, "Oh, god, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to. I..."

But Goyle, whose dumbfounded eyes quickly darkened into something far more serious, surprised him by seizing him by the shoulders in return and kissing him back, clumsy and aggressively and _oh so good._

Yes, if it was anything Dudley was certain of right now, it was that lying here on his back in the middle of a boxing ring, with Goyle atop of him and Goyle's mouth ravishing his own, was good, more than good. He gasped and groaned, bucking his hips against Goyle's without really knowing what he was doing. Then he gave a yelp of surprise when Goyle suddenly broke the kiss, seized his hips, and flopped him over onto his stomach.

"Don't whine," Goyle growled in his ear. "You know you want it."

Wanted it -- oh god, if this was what Dudley thought it was, he certainly wasn't supposed to want it. He couldn't be. But he did, he did; his cock was almost the size of his head, at least it felt that way, with how it was pounding in his shorts. Goyle curled a hand around it, and it felt so impossibly fantastic that Dudley almost thought he'd come there and then. "Please," he babbled, without any real idea what he was asking for, just that it was something Goyle could give him.

"Yes," Goyle panted, and if Dudley wasn't mistaken, it was hunger right there in his voice -- the sort of hunger Dudley himself knew all about, when he came home from work and could think about nothing but food, pizzas and pies and endless chains of sausage, and _this was how much Goyle wanted him right now, oh god oh god oh god..._

A hand reached between his legs; he spread them willingly, as if he'd been doing this his whole life. A finger pressed -- it hurt, a little bit, but Dudley had never cared less about pain in all his life -- and then slipped inside, and if Dudley's mind had been just a little clearer and just a little less lust-hazed, he would perhaps have asked where that slippery oil had come from. But all he did was bury his face in his hands and groan some more, and then there was another finger, and a third, and they moved and pressed and _stretched_ , and he should have found it disgusting, but all he could think was that he wanted more.

"Stand still," Goyle ordered, for Dudley had been writhing and moving to get more of those fingers. To his disappointment they vanished, but then there was something else -- something very thick and very hard and very insistent that was pushing against his opening, and he almost fainted at the thought.

Goyle's hands gripped Dudley's hips, and then there was a motion forward or a motion backward or both, and the grip on his hips tightened, and Goyle groaned, and Dudley gasped as Goyle sank heavily into him in a long, deep slide.

For a moment there was only breathing and heavy heartbeats, and then Goyle moved, and it felt so amazingly good that Dudley could only squeeze his eyes shut and push back.

It did not take long: two more, three more heavy thrusts, and then Goyle's hand found Dudley's cock again, and Dudley came with a shout and a yell and a pang which far outshone all his lonely orgasms from before. "Fuck," he whispered, cradling his head in his arms, receiving a confirming grunt as Goyle, too, found his release.

For some minutes they stayed like that, Dudley on all fours, Goyle on top of him. Then there was a heave and a sigh, and Goyle pulled away. Dudley opened his eyes.

The hall was the same as always, and still different. When he'd seen it last time, he'd been a virgin. And now...

"Thanks," he said tentatively, craning his neck to look up at Goyle. "That was brilliant."

Goyle, who'd gone to fetch their towels from a corner, turned to look at him, almost in disbelief. Then a corner of his mouth turned up a little. "Yes," he said, picking up Dudley's towel and tossing it to him. "You probably want to clean yourself up."

Dudley accepted, a little sheepishly. Then a thought struck him, and he frowned. "Um, shouldn't we've used... I mean, the nurse always talked about diseases --"

"Don't worry," said Goyle curtly. He'd already climbed out of the ring, making his way toward the changing room. "I've taken care of it."

This absolutely didn't make any sense to Dudley, but then again, neither did anything else that had happened tonight. He shook his head in wonder and disbelief, waiting for regret to set in. It didn't.

 

~ * ~

 

The following day was a Saturday, and his shift at the pub wasn't until evening. Dudley slept until ten o' clock, then cooked himself breakfast, pondering what to do. Unwilling as he was to admit it, he wanted to talk to someone; the whole thing with Goyle was too much to handle on his own. But whom?

His parents were out of the question. His mates, too, except for maybe Piers -- he'd become politically active these last couple of years, to the point where he was wearing badges and attending protests and Dudley's mother complained about what had 'happened to that nice Polkiss boy'. Dudley thought Piers would be all right with this sort of thing, although he didn't much want to confide in him. For one thing, he'd probably want Dudley to attend queer clubs or something, and Dudley wasn't gay. This whole thing with Goyle was just something very strange, something that had happened out of the blue. That was all.

In the end, he decided to call Harry. It was perfect, really: if Harry didn't approve, well, Dudley didn't see much of him as it was. And perhaps Harry, who was a freak who lived in a freak world, would be mollified that Dudley was a freak, too. Well, sort of. He wasn't gay, but having sex with a man probably qualified for freak-status. Or did it? More the reason to call Harry.

Thankfully his cousin kept a normal telephone 'in case of emergency'. Dudley dialed the number; a surprised, but not hostile, Harry answered. They agreed to meet for lunch at a sandwich bar close to Dudley's flat.

Harry had changed during the couple of years since Dudley'd seen him last; he looked more confident, more relaxed. They found a discreet table far from the counter, and after some initial small-talk, Harry finally asked Dudley about his troubles.

Dudley took a solid bite of his sandwich before replying. "You know how you sometimes get so confused you feel like you're getting lost in your own head?"

Harry nodded.

"That's me right now. It's kind of horrible." He swallowed, then put the rest of his sandwich down. "Listen, I'm going to tell you this, but I'd like you to keep silent, you know."

"Of course," said Harry patiently. "Is it serious?"

Dudley thought for a moment. "I dunno? Maybe?" He shook his head. "I suppose it is, and I wanted to talk to you about it, because you know what it's like to be a freak --"

Harry rolled his eyes. "I'll pretend I didn't hear that."

"Uh, sorry, then," Dudley said. "But anyway, the thing is..."

He proceeded to tell Harry about the events of the last weeks: of Goyle's arrival, his mysterious refusal to answer any substantial questions about himself, Dudley's unusual nervousness, and finally the encounter the night before. Harry listened without interrupting, although his eyes widened a couple of times in what seemed to be genuine surprise.

"Hm," he said when Dudley was finally done. "Goyle, you say?"

"Yeah," said Dudley, surprised and a little annoyed that this was what interested Harry most. "So?"

"Big fellow? Grunts when he talks?"

"Yeah," said Dudley again, slowly this time. "Do you know him?"

Harry grinned -- a broad, amused grin, but there was no malice in it. "Do I know him! Dudley, I went to school with him."

"You mean..." Dudley could feel himself pale. "That place? And he's... One of them? You, I mean?"

"Oh, yes," said Harry, laughing. He shook his head. "Imagine, Goyle's taken up boxing now... I wonder why?"

Dudley didn't reply. He was too stunned: all this time, he'd been sparring with... and drinking with... and finally _having sex_ with... It was too much.

"Well." Harry's voice broke into his thoughts. "From what you tell me, it sounds like you're in love."

"In love...!" Dudley gaped. "Are you serious?"

Harry shrugged. "The feelings you talk about seem familiar, you know."

"But I can't be... And he's..." Dudley leaned back in his chair. "I'm not gay," he said weakly.

Was Harry hiding a smile? "Whatever you are, it seems like you're head-over-heels."

"I can't be," Dudley protested again. "And anyway, it's too dangerous. Your kind do all sorts of nasty stuff to us, don't you?"

"We've been over this before," said Harry, the merest hint of fatigue in his voice. "I can't see why he'd want to hurt you -- the war is over long ago, and he obviously likes you." Another grin. "Enough to have sex with you, anyway."

 

~ * ~

 

Wednesday came, as it had to. Dudley did not feel prepared.

The more he thought about it, the more Goyle's behaviour made sense. No wonder he was reluctant to answer questions; Dudley knew that very few people were allowed to know about, well, that stuff. Of course Goyle couldn't know that he, Dudley, had experienced it first-hand. But perhaps it was just as well; as far as Dudley had understood, Goyle and Harry had been far from friendly during their time at school.

Newton met him with an apologetic smile. "Well, it seems as if your sparring partner has taken today off. Said he wasn't feeling quite well. I'll be pairing you with Peter instead, all right?"

The disappointment mingled with relief and soured Dudley's mood. If there was one thing he'd realised these last few days, it was this: he really, truly, wanted to be paired with Goyle. In every sense, as gay as it sounded. He couldn't help it; it was even bigger than he, and it tormented him day and night, making him toss and turn in his bed. It even made him lose interest in food.

"Don't worry," said Newton with a reassuring pat on his shoulder. "He'll be back before you know it."

After practice, Dudley wandered outside to discover it was raining. He swore under his breath, then decided to pause for a cig under the half-roof at the back of the building. Smoking was frowned upon at the club, and Dudley did not indulge very often, but when the universe decided to make things this difficult for him -- well, an innocent fag couldn't hurt.

He'd fished one out and put it in his mouth before he remembered that he didn't have any matches. Swearing wildly, he patted his pockets and stared around.

"I'll fix it," said a gruff voice.

Dudley spun around, the cig still between his lips. Before he could react, Goyle had pointed what looked like a stick at him -- Dudley froze in fear -- and muttered something under his breath.

A moment later, and a small flame burned at the end of the cigarette. Dudley almost dropped it in shock, but got hold of it and held it between two fingers, scrutinising it with suspicion.

"It won't harm you," said Goyle.

Dudley put it back between his lips. The cig tasted normal. It appeared Goyle had done nothing to it except lighting it. Dudley supposed he should be grateful, but the whole thing was just too weird.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded instead, fixing Goyle with an accusatory stare. "Coach said you were sick."

Goyle was staring into space, hands in his pockets. "I feel kind of weird," he said.

"Why are you here then?" Dudley said, inhaling at his cigarette. Damn, it felt good.

Goyle turned to look at him, not replying for a while. Then, at last, "I had a talk with Harry Potter."

Dudley almost lost his breath. "Harry Potter is my cousin," he managed.

"I know," said Goyle. "I didn't, though. But I do now. He said you are afraid of wizards."

Dudley scowled. _Afraid_... That was an over-the-top statement if he'd ever heard one. "Harry likes to exaggerate stuff," he said, trying to sound dignified.

A snort -- a laugh? -- from Goyle. "Yeah, he was like that at school, too. But he also said a couple of other things."

Suddenly it seemed as though they were standing much closer. Dudley didn't think he'd moved -- or had he? Was this some wizard's trick? He didn't want to think of it. "What things?" he asked instead. It was supposed to sound casual, but it came out a whisper.

Again, Goyle didn't reply right away. After a while, he turned to look Dudley in the eye. "Don't you want to know why I took up boxing?" he asked.

Dudley paused, taken aback. "Well... Yeah."

"There was a war," said Goyle, "some years ago. You know about it. You must know, you're Potter's cousin. Anyway. I lost my best friend there. I did a lot of things I regret now. Most of them with magic. I was tired of fighting with people who didn't want to, I just wanted the competition, and then a while ago I came to stay at my aunt's in London, and Newton suggested --"

"Wait," said Dudley, utterly befuddled. "Newton's your _uncle?_ "

"Nah." There was definitely a trace of a smile on Goyle's lips. "My aunt's seeing him. Trying new territory, as it were. Anyway, I'd done a lot of fistfighting back at school -- much of it with people who didn't want to, but also a lot with my best friend -- and he thought I might like boxing. And then you were there." A right-out grin. "Turns out I like it a lot."

"Right," said Dudley, taking out his cigarette. He wanted to put it out in a cool and casual manner, but burned his fingers instead, and let out an involuntary howl. Goyle laughed, a rough, but gentle sound.

"Come here," he said, taking Dudley's hand and pointing that strange stick to it again. "Can't risk hurting those hands."

Dudley was about to protest, but then the pain subsided at once, only to be replaced by a lovely warmth: Goyle was still holding his hand. He looked up, and met Goyle's eyes. They stood like that for a couple of moments.

"Will you come this Friday?" Dudley asked at last. Damn, he sounded positively swooning. He sounded like a girl. How gay. He tried to make up for it with a manly grin. "I'll lend you my gloves again."

Goyle grinned back, his hand not letting go of Dudley's. "Sure, I'll be coming."

Thank heavens it was dark, so that no one could see how madly Dudley blushed under that gaze.

And thank heavens they were standing at the back of a building, so that no gossipy passers-by could see how soundly Dudley Dursley was kissed by Gregory Goyle, and take it upon themselves to hurry home to his parents to tell them that yes, Petunia, right now your son is _anything_ but lonely.


End file.
